The Secret History of Las Vegas (18 page)

A
blue sky but not night. An eerie dusk, an unearthly light. A blue mist alternately obscures and reveals a field of blue grass in the shadow of a darkening sky. Alone, in the middle of the field, a dark tree spreads its black foliage across the frame.

Water walks toward the tree in the middle of the field, but no matter how fast he moves or how much he tries, he can't reach the tree. It never moves but it is always just out of reach. The blue sky gets bluer and the blue grass waves through the blue mist like blue algae in water. Still, Water can't reach the tree.

And the blue tree morphs, shifting in agony as its trunk twists to form a bristlecone pine, standing in the middle of an empty muddy field.

Twisting slowly from a branch bent so low it seems like it can't hold its terrible burden is a young woman, eyes closed peacefully, something close to a smile on her face.

Selah, Water calls, softly at first, then louder, Selah, until it is a scream.

He wakes abruptly; alone, Fire fast asleep under his caul, sitting in the chair by the window. If anyone heard his scream, they don't respond. Reaching out, Water touches the cold glass of the window.

Selah is a cloud, he says, a star cloud, constellation of the dog.

T
he moment's awkwardness when Asia answered Sunil's door to find Sheila was compounded by the fact that Asia was wearing lacy underpants, sporting a black eye and a shirt that could only have been Sunil's, two buttons keeping it on.

I'm sorry, Sheila said, not knowing what else to say.

About what, Asia asked.

Is, er, Sunil home, Sheila asked.

No, Asia said, not stepping away from the door but not shutting it either.

Asia was curious about Sheila, but not unduly worried. She knew she was the only one Sunil was sleeping with, and he'd never mentioned this woman. Still, the day had been full of surprises.

I'm Sheila. I work with Sunil. He hasn't been answering his cell. I was worried.

Hello, Sheila, Asia said. I'm Asia.

Hi.

Asia didn't like that Sheila had been calling Sunil on his cell and felt comfortable enough to come over, clearly unannounced. I haven't heard from him either, she said. I thought he was at work.

No, I checked, Sheila said.

He's never mentioned you, Asia said.

This is the first time I've come over. I'm really embarassed. Look, I'll go, just tell him I came round, Sheila said.

You should come in, Asia said, stepping back and holding the door open. That is, if you want to.

Are you sure, Sheila asked.

Asia wanted to say, I don't want to be alone. Not right now, not today. She wanted to say, I'm confused and terrified, because I found out that not only have I been sleeping with my lover's best friend, but he also tried to kill me. And my lover is not really my lover, but my client. And I love him. I do, but now I don't know why because I really don't know enough about him. Instead she said: I'm sure.

Sheila walked in and stopped in the hallway as Asia closed the door. She followed Asia into the living room, where she felt herself stiffen and draw a sharp breath even though she hadn't meant to. Were you robbed, Sheila asked.

Asia took in the ruined living room, feeling good at the implication that Sheila assumed she lived with Sunil. I don't live here, she said.

Oh, I'm sorry, I just assumed, Sheila said.

Assumed what, Asia asked.

I'm sorry, Sheila said.

About what?

I'm not sure, Sheila said, acutely uncomfortable. About coming unannounced.

Yeah, that is kind of forward, Asia said, checking Sheila out. Thinking: late thirties, fashion still caught in the '80s, tight body, cute face. Still, she thought, no competition.

So what happened here?

None of your business, Asia said.

So this has nothing to do with that, Sheila said, pointing at Asia's black eye.

Like I said, none of your business.

Sunil didn't—Sheila began.

Fuck you, Asia said softly. I thought you said you knew him.

Right, Sheila said, I'm sorry.

So do you have a message for Sunil, Asia asked.

What?

A message you'd like to leave for Sunil?

I'm sorry, but I've known Sunil for six years, Sheila siad, and I've never heard about you, Sheila said.

Asia smiled, but her eyes were cold. I've known Sunil for six years too and he's never mentioned you, either.

They stood there, side by side, in the room Eskia had trashed, not looking at each other.

Have you called the police, Sheila asked.

If you have no message for Sunil, I'll just tell him you came around then, Asia said.

Yes, thank you, Sheila said, I should go.

Asia nodded and pushed the door closed firmly, ending the conversation. She walked back into the living room and sat on the floor. For a long time she just sat there, and then she gave in to the release of tears.

I
t was a full moon. Heavy in the frame of the car window.

Sunil was lost in the memory of Jan, of the last time he saw her alive at Vlakplaas.

There was Eugene, Sunil, Constable Mashile, and Jan. Jan in the light-blue skirt, white blouse with lacy detail, long tanned legs, and her long lean toned arms unadorned except for the ring that sat on her thumb, too big for any other finger. The one Sunil had given her so long ago. He wondered why she'd taken it off the chain.

She seemed out of place here, like a woman on her way to a picnic who had taken a wrong turn, casual in her smile as though the most dangerous thing she faced were whether ants would get into the jam or not. Incongruous in this place, this stark white room with bare cement floors. The paint here always smelled new, because fresh coats were applied frequently.

Eugene loved the pristine whiteness, the way it would show up blood from the more intense interrogations, the patterns on the wall forming a red puzzle. How much pain before that one capitulated. How much before this one informed on everyone—even the innocent. What was most effective on whom—teeth extracted with pliers; good old-fashioned fist work; the cut inner tube of a car tire pulled down over the face to suffocate in controlled measure. But of course, this was an imprecise science, lungs often filled with liquid and sometimes blood, and so on. The point no longer the information, no longer saving the state, but for nothing more than the hunger, the desire to know the body in all its savage beauty.

All of it happened in this room, Eugene's favorite.

The windows opened onto a vista of hills and scrub and low scudding clouds that drew shadows across the stubby rise. Sometimes there were zebus lowing in the heat, driven by a boy trying to find pasture for them to graze before being driven off by gun-toting policemen for trespassing.

Not the usual view from an interrogation room.

Jan sat facing Eugene, a table between them, a slow-moving ceiling fan above them turning the heat over like a blanket drying on a stove, not cooling anyone, just moving the humidity around evenly.

Sunil sat on a stool between the windows trying not to look at Jan or Eugene. Instead he focused on the bowl of fruit that sat between them on the table, noticing the details: three pears, a knife, and an oddly shaped and heavily ornamented silver object, which could have been anything but looked decidedly Victorian.

Constable Mashile was staring intently at Eugene, trying to keep the look of discomfort from his face.

Would you care for a pear, Eugene asked Jan. No? Well then, I'm sure you won't mind if I have one. He reached over and tested each one, finally selecting the one that met his standards. Pears are most delicious at the midpoint of ripeness, between too firm and too soft, he continued.

No one else spoke.

You know, before they get really ripe? The flesh has some bite to it and yet the juices are sweet, Eugene said to no one in particular. He rubbed the pear against his khaki bush shirt and picked up the knife, cutting slowly, deliberately, into the fruit. Everyone watched him pare it into quarters. He let them fall apart and lie there on the table like flower petals. He picked one up, held it to his nose, inhaled, and then with a smile, he placed it in his mouth and bit down on the grainy flesh, his smile widening. He chewed slowly, quietly, and then spoke: Perfect, just perfect. This should really have been the fruit to tempt Adam, don't you think? The apple shows a singular lack of imagination on the part of that particular Bible author, whoever he was. I wonder if Moses was a composite, you know, like Shakespeare? He poked at the three quarters that were left with the tip of the knife, as though testing for the optimal one. He speared one on the tip of the knife and ate it with delight, smacking his lips and looking so lost in his pleasure that everyone else looked away in embarrassment from that particular intimacy. Eugene put the knife down and rubbed his hands together and said: That was good, reminds me of my childhood. My moeder would cut up pears for me, a rare pleasure on that farm so far inland where fruit rarely did well. Memories, eh?

Turning to Sunil, he said: Any luck with your psycho mumbo-jumbo on this suspect? Did the Lady Jan here speak to you?

Sunil glanced at Jan, caught her eye, and, looking away quickly, shook his head. No, he said.

Jan, Jan, Jan, Eugene said. You really should open up to Dr. Singh here. His methods have proven quite effective in turning people such as you. I hate to use violence, particularly on someone who can be reasoned with. It's much better to become an
askari
without the violence.

Jan stared at him intently, with an almost forensic intensity, but she said nothing.

Are you familiar with the Swahili word
askari
? Like Lindiwe over there, these are members of a conquered indigenous people helping their conquerors maintain the status quo. That's not a literal meaning of course, but it's true to the spirit of things. Do you know who came up with it? The British, those fokkers who tried to turn the Boer into
teefs
. Now you conspire with that scum over your people, and to help whom? Kaffirs? You can ask Sunil here, I'm not racist, but there is an order to things, a way the universe runs, and men like me, we are the ones who keep things in place, keep things running the way they should. I take no pleasure in the decisions I have to make, but I make them, I must make them. That is my role. Just as this is the role you've chosen. Mine is destiny, yours is weak-willed. I am here to offer you the chance to be strong.

Why all this performance, Jan asked. Her voice startled Sunil, the venom of it, the hard edge of strength, like a finely tuned wire holding everything in place. This was not the shy Jan he'd known.

Performance, Eugene asked, eyebrows raised, reaching for another lobe of pear.

Why don't you just get on with the torture, with the extermination of the resistance to your white power, she spat.

Eugene chewed thoughtfully, and then with an expression of regret on his face said: I abhor torture. I abhor brutality. These methods, exterminating the native, to borrow your words, are not only barbaric, they are not effective in the long term. The real power lies in securing the cooperation, even the alliance, of the native if we are to hold up this system, and it is not, as you put it, about white power. At least, not for me. I feel more Zulu than white, myself. No, no, it's about law and order. We represent civilization, law, order, and the march of progress, and for better or worse, this must be defended and moved forward at all costs. I more than any am sorry about the cost. And torture makes me sad, it is regrettable when I have to use it.

Jan spat at him, the gob of spittle landing on the last piece of pear.

Eugene regarded it with a strange smile. I am a visionary, he said. That's why I brought Dr. Singh here on board. His job is to use a mix of persuasive chemicals and conversion to bring enemies into the fold, into an understanding of the way.

Gaan naai jou Ma
, Jan said, softly, so softly that Eugene had to lean in to hear her properly.

Sunil was shocked at the language; the Jan he knew would never have told anyone to fuck his mother. More than the shock was his fear for her. But if Eugene was upset, his body didn't register it. Instead he leaned forward and picked up the piece of pear with the glistening pearl of spittle on it. He studied it for a moment, then put it in his mouth and, never taking his eyes off Jan, he chewed slowly, thoughtfully.

Talk to Sunil, Eugene said, getting up. Don't make me come back here.

I'll talk to him as much as you want, but nothing will change, Jan said, her eyes glued to Sunil's face, the look in them heavy with pity and disgust.

Eugene paused. He returned to the table and picked up the silver ornamented object.

Remember the Victorians, he asked. They loved to collect the strangest things. This is a working reproduction of a medieval torture device. It belonged to my grandfather, who loved the fact that something so beautiful could inflict so much pain. Do you know what they called this? It's called the Pear because there is this ornamented pearlike extension on the end of this handle, do you see? Do you know how it works? I'll show you.

And he did. Holding the handle in the middle, he turned the knob at the bottom. As he did so, the metal pear opened up into four perfect quarters, spreading like the metal petals of a flower.

You see, it's quite ingenious really. You insert the pear into someone's mouth, and then you twist the bottom here until it begins to open. You keep twisting it and pretty soon it breaks the teeth, dislocates the jaw, even begins to rip the cheeks apart. Of course, the trick is to do it little by little, pausing occasionally to let the victim catch their breath while you wait for the confession you want.

Everyone watched the metal pear as it opened wider and wider.

Of course, Eugene said, if you go at it long enough, you will eventually kill the victim, but only after a very long time and pain that is unimaginable, even for me. Now, the great thing about this, as I found out once, is that it works on any human orifice. Any.

Eugene put the open pear down on the table in front of Jan.

This is a very rare and expensive piece. I don't use it often, but for you, only the best will do. So please, talk to Sunil. Don't make me come back here. I didn't lie when I said I don't enjoy torture, but as you now know, I really enjoy pears.

The door closed behind him and Constable Mashile gently, almost politely.

Jan, Sunil said.

Sunil, Jan said.

Harvest moon, Salazar said, as they drove through the silent desert.

What?

The moon, Salazar said, pointing. It's called a harvest moon.

Ever seen a harvest, Sunil asked.

It's just an expression, Jesus, Salazar said.

Sunil looked out the window. In the dark, the landscape looked like home, like the brush of the grasslands, the heat of the Namibian desert that seemed determined to creep down into South Africa, the hills like those of Cape Town and the gold silts of Jozi.

Why did you become a policeman, Sunil asked.

Always wanted to be a hero, Salazar said.

Everybody does, but was there any one thing that made you want to do that as a policeman?

I don't follow.

Well, you could have been a surgeon or a fireman, but you chose policeman. And don't tell me it's about the gun. In all the time I've been with you, you've never used it, never even pulled it out, or even acted like you have it.

Maybe I'm old-school, Salazar said. Maybe I like to settle a fight with my fists. Maybe I've used my gun too many times already.

Maybe.

All right. My dad was a man who worked hard his whole life in a job he hated. A job that cut him off from his first love, the sea. He gave everything up for me, my sister, Ana, and my mom. He and Ana died in a robbery in a 7-Eleven that went bad. But because he was an immigrant, a Cuban, a brown man, nobody took his death, or Ana's, seriously. The police, it seems, didn't care. The case was closed in a week. Insufficient leads, they said. My mom moved us to Vegas, where she could be as far from that memory as possible. But I never forgot, and I decided to join up when I could and make a difference. I wanted to show that every life is valuable, has meaning, must be honored.

Salazar, I'm fucking impressed. You are some kind of hero, Sunil said.

Yeah, well, twenty years on the force changes you. Teaches you that it's all about compromise, about gray areas, about difficult moral things. Mostly I just want to make it through the day without having to kill anyone. And trust me, I've used my gun plenty. I don't know why the crazies always turn up on my watch.

I know the difficulty of trying to make moral decisions in the face of immoral moments. I know that there is no moral way to take a life, but sometimes life hands you very difficult choices. Still, you always want to do the right thing, he said.

There was a moment of silence.

That's why the dead girl haunts you, she reminds you of Ana, Sunil said.

The worst part of being a cop, Salazar said, is that everyone hates you, and yet as soon as some shit goes down, they call 911 and want you to risk your life to protect them.

Sunil laughed. You should have been a fireman, he said. Much less complicated.

Damned right. And what about you? Why did you become a shrink and not a surgeon?

Sunil took a deep breath. Fair is fair, he thought. My mother was mentally ill, he said. But she died before I could help her, and that, Detective, is why I became, as you like to say, a shrink.

Salazar was silent for a moment. He took a silver flask from his jacket pocket and, without speaking, passed it to Sunil.

Been holding out on me, I see, Sunil said. He drank deeply, the alcohol burning through him, then passed the flask back to Salazar, who took a swig and returned it to his jacket pocket.

Isn't drinking while driving illegal, Sunil asked.

I'm the fucking police.

Sunil laughed.

Do you think anything ever changes, Salazar asked. That we can make a difference? That we will become a better species?

I don't know, I'm not sure if it even matters. I think all that matters is that we don't shrink away from the truth and that we keep trying, Sunil said.

I like that. Push the stone up the fucking hill because we should.

Yes, Sunil said. There is merit in that, grace even. Maybe that's what makes us deeply human. Pushing ever against the inevitable. I think the world might just be saved that way.

Fuck, this is some heavy shit. Makes me want to tell a dirty joke as a palate cleanser.

I love dirty jokes, Sunil said.

Okay, here's one. A man wakes up in the emergency room and the doctor says, You've been in an accident. Do you remember anything? The man shakes his head. So the doctor says, Well, we've got good news and bad news for you. All right, says the man, tell me the bad news. The bad news is that your penis was severed in the accident, the doctor said, and it arrived too late to reattach it. So what's the good news, the man asked. The good news is that we can rebuild it, but it will cost a thousand dollars an inch. We found a savings book in your briefcase with nine thousand dollars in it, so you should talk to your wife about this. If you spend three thousand but she's used to six, then it will be dissappointing, but if you spend all nine thousand and she's used to three, well then, that won't be good. So talk to her and I'll check in with you in the morning. The next day the doctor calls the man and asks what he and his wife have decided to get. Well, the man said, she decided we should get the expensive granite countertop for the kitchen that she's always wanted.